


In Service of the King

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as a game; so many things do. Elladan and Elrohir play at being King and Herald, and Elladan dreams of bowing to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Service of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> This isn't exactly what I set out to write, but E, I hope it hits at least some of the things you crave!

It started as a game; so many things do.

On a lovely fragrant day in April, Celebrían sat in the grass, showing her sons how to weave wildflowers into coronets. Elladan had brought back an armful of blossoms in every color and type, only half of which were suitable for the purpose; Elrohir, on the other hand, had spent a great deal of time carefully picking out wild daffodils of exactly the same shade and size. Elladan quickly grew bored of his own and instead watched, fascinated, as Elrohir's golden wreath came together.

When it was finished, Elrohir lifted it onto his head with all the gravitas of a born ruler, and Celebrían laughed. "My little king."

"You be the king, and I'll be Ada!" Elladan made a banner by draping Celebrían's blue shawl over a two-pronged stick, and she didn't have the heart to rescue it from him, even when he trailed the ends of it through the mud. "Make way! Make way for his Highness Ereinion Gil-galad, son of...Fingon, son of..."

"—Fingolfin," Elrohir supplied helpfully, because he had not fallen asleep in that lesson, unlike his brother.

"—Fingolfin, of the house of Finwë. Make way for the King!" Elladan banged the bottom of his banner-stick authoritatively against a tree stump, and they began a procession through the grass, winding through imaginary streets of admiring throngs. Celebrían rose to her feet only to curtsy low before them, kissing Elrohir's hand as if in supplication, making them both giggle.

"Herald, to me!" Elrohir was surely only repeating a line he had heard in some heroic ballad or fireside tale, but his face lit up when his brother leaped to his side. Emboldened, he issued commands to attack invisible foes, retrieve items of great power (usually rocks, once a toad), and even to straighten his knocked-askew crown (which Elladan did with the utmost of care). They gamboled through an imaginary history, Elrohir giving orders and Elladan energetically carrying them out, and Celebrían decided the destruction of her shawl was worth the joy they had of it.

It was a favorite game in the years to come; for their next birthday Celebrían even fixed the shawl to a proper standard-pole, cut down for Elladan's height, and showed him how to stitch stars into it with her saffron thread.

Elrond had once teased that they had it the wrong way around, for Elladan was more like the king in personality—outgoing and effusive—and Elrohir more like himself, reserved and thoughtful. Wouldn’t Elladan like a turn at being the king and Elrohir the herald? The affronted dismay on both of their faces dissuaded him from ever suggesting such a thing again, though he and Celebrían had a good laugh about their horrified reaction once the boys had been put to bed.

As far as they knew, it was simple pretend-play. That was a part of it, in fairness.

When the boys were alone, though, it became a sort of dare. Little by little, Elrohir tested the limits of what mischief he could order his brother to carry out under the authority of his make-believe kingship. Climb on the furniture when they’d been told not to? Creep out of bed after lights-out? Sneak rose-cakes from the pantry for them to eat before supper? There was a thrill in having his edicts obeyed. Elladan, likewise, thrilled at the challenge—was he brave enough? Was he clever enough not to be caught?

The answer to the first was almost always yes. The answer to the second, unfortunately, was _only sometimes._

The first time he was called before their parents on some ordered crime, Elrohir paced outside the door, sick with guilt and dread. Guilt because it was, of course, his fault; dread because he was surely next to be punished, once Elladan told them the full story. The sharp disappointed tones of their parents’ voices came through the door, though the words did not; Elrohir twisted his hands anxiously until the door opened at last and Elladan slunk out looking deeply repentant.

He waited, but no call came. At last, confused, he trailed after his brother, who shrugged one glum shoulder and said, “I’m not to go outside again until I’ve memorized the Numenorean kings and queens from uncle Elros all the way to _Tar-Míriel_.”

“I’ll help,” Elrohir said automatically. “We’ll both stay in.” And then, once their bedroom door was shut behind them— “Why didn’t you tell on me?”

Elladan brightened a little, and a conspiratorial smile crept across his face. “I do listen to our lessons sometimes. Don’t you remember?” Elrohir blinked at him, mystified, and he smiled even wider. “ _The king should be the last to fall, if his men know their duty._ ”

Elrohir, startled, gave him an impulsive hug; Elladan laughed into his shoulder. The confinement became not a punishment, but a badge of courage; a trial of honor that they would endure together, king and herald.

It made the learning more interesting, at least.

~

By the time they were bordering on adolescence, the dress-up and make-believe had ceased, but the game lived on in one form or another. As a sort of joke, affectionate nicknames between them— "Fetch me my breakfast, herald!" Elrohir would say, imperiously. "Yes, your _Highness_ , I can see that your royal legs are broken," Elladan would say back in his most sarcastic tone, though he would still fetch the requested breakfast.

And in secret, their dares continued.

It was not a competition—or at least, not against one another, though perhaps against themselves. For Elladan the failure lay, obviously, in not carrying out an order; but for Elrohir, the failure lay in giving an order Elladan could not obey. If he overreached, they both lost the game. But if his dares were too tame, his commands too easily done, then what was the fun in winning? His challenge was to find the line, the edge between exhilaration and fear, or between mischief and true wrong.

It was not all rule-breaking. Sometimes Elrohir used it to bolster his brother's will, to reassure him or offer support: “Don’t back down when that horse gives you trouble, herald,” or, “You _will_ win in your practice bout today. Your king commands it.” Elladan’s shoulders would relax, his frown smooth out, as if somehow following an order was easier than doing the thing on his own power; then he would smirk back at Elrohir, pretending he hadn’t needed the assistance, and say “Yes, sire,” in the cheekiest tone he could manage.

Even when they were up to mischief, the risk was not all on Elladan's side. He was the braver of them in many ways, but they were, after all, a pair. Besides, now that their lessons had begun to prepare them for the possibility of—someday, maybe—being the lords of this valley, they had learned another thing: a king is not above his people. A good ruler does not ask anything of his subjects that he would not also do himself, if the need arises. Sometimes after a new dare, Elladan would sweep a playful bow, and say, "Of course, your Highness. But perhaps you could show your herald how it's done?" And Elrohir would be bound to do it with him.

This was how they came to leap simultaneously from a balcony into the deepest part of the Bruinen, nearly causing a passing courtier to die of fright before they resurfaced, laughing and unhurt; or how they came to make themselves both regrettably sick on a bottle of Arnorian brandy they had “borrowed” from their father’s personal stores; or any number of other relatively harmless crimes. If they were caught, they took their punishment without breathing a word about the game that had earned it for them.

Strangely, it was the same historical fascination that began the game that eventually ended it.

There were, if you knew where to look, a thousand echoes of the Last Alliance in the House of Elrond. Some things were easy to find; Narsil’s shattered pieces were kept on display, as were the banners that had survived (carefully preserved and protected from sunlight, but on display). Elrond still wore his armor, on the rare occasions he needed to wear armor at all. Other things were tucked away, stored in secret or kept safe from rough handling.

The sons of Elrond were nothing if not observant, though; they knew where to find everything worth finding. The letters and papers did not interest them, but there was one treasure that did: Aeglos.

It was not on display, they vaguely understood, because it had some sentimental value for their father; still, he had had it repaired, and kept it carefully locked away in a cabinet in his study. They had seen it once or twice, but Elrond did not like to take it out. Given the nature of their games, it became a nearly mystical object to them, a holy relic just out of reach. And once they knew where their father kept the key (unwisely, in a desk drawer no more than two paces away from the cabinet itself), it was all but inevitable they would be drawn to it.

Elrohir actually resisted longer, in this. Elladan had a habit of slowing his steps whenever he passed their father’s study, his eyes lingering on the cabinet, a hungry expression on his face. At first Elrohir would elbow him, catch his arm and pull him along as his steps began to drag. Later he would slow too, but only for a moment, before shaking himself and his brother both. “Don’t let Ada see you, or he’ll bury it away somewhere and we’ll _never_ get to hold it.”

But then Elrond and Celebrían rode out for the day, and the temptation became too much.

Elrohir came upon his brother staring again at the cabinet; this time, not from a distance, but standing just inside the door, his hands flexing as if already itching to reach for it. Elrohir hesitated a moment, glancing down the corridor. Then he stepped inside, swiftly and silently closing the door behind him, leaning in to whisper against Elladan’s ear.

“Do you covet my lance, herald? Go on, take it out.”

Elladan’s face lit. He glanced over his shoulder, giving Elrohir a reckless grin, then crossed to fetch the key. “As my king commands.” He hesitated for only a moment with the key in the lock, then he was turning it, easing the doors open. There were other relics in the cabinet, but neither one had eyes for anything but the glaive. They both drew a breath of excitement when it came into view. Elladan stretched reverent hands up to ease it down from its mounting, then had to shift his grip in surprise, resting the weight of it on the pommel— “It’s _heavy!_ ”

“Of course it is! It’s a weapon of war, not a toy.” That was an echo of their father, though Elrohir said it with quiet glee, far from Elrond’s scolding tone.

Elladan had a feel for Aeglos now, lifting it down and shifting into a defensive stance. The weapon dwarfed him, for Gil-galad had been tall, and they had not yet begun to shoot up beyond the height childhood gave them; but still, Elrohir thought he looked very fine and fair. Not quite like their father, and not Gil-galad either, but some handsome stranger of older days; Fingon perhaps, or Elu Thingol. The image took his breath away, and filled him with a strange sort of pride, as if he could see for a moment what Elladan would become.

“Let me look at it a moment,” he commanded, and Elladan lowered it carefully so that he could examine the blade, run awed fingertips along the inscription. The moment felt immense, full of import and promise.

After a moment, Elladan said, “If you wish me to try it out, you will have to step back, my king.”

Elrohir grinned at him and withdrew to the far side of their father’s desk, giving him the room to maneuver. It was an unfamiliar weapon, made for someone much larger, but Elladan adjusted to it after a few slow sweeps, changing his grip until it sat comfortably in his hands. He tried a few of the pike-attacks they had learned with their weapons tutor, running through them slowly so as not to accidentally decapitate any of the decor, and Elrohir watched him with delight.

“It looks good on you, herald.”

“My king is too kind—” There was a sudden noise at the door, and they both jumped, turning as one to watch it in nervous dread. They both held their breaths; a beat, and then another. No one came through.

After a long moment, they both relaxed, but it had been enough to spook them. Elladan was already moving towards the cabinet when Elrohir said, “Enough for today, I think.”

“Yes, sire,” Elladan murmured, lifting Aeglos back into place.

Elrohir was never sure, later, if Elladan fumbled his grip or simply missed the hooks. The moment in which the glaive fell seemed endless, like one of the dreams where he found himself rooted to the spot and unable to speak. He could not do anything but watch it fall, watch Elladan—who had already started to step back, presumably fetching the cabinet key—reach up by reflex to catch it. He was too far back; he caught the blade, not the shaft, though it was at an angle. Aeglos glanced off and rolled to the floor, and Elladan was bleeding, bleeding—

Elrohir’s feet came unstuck, and he was across the room in a moment, cradling his brother and shouting frantically for help.

~

In the end it was not so very bad. Elladan had to have stitches across his palm, but they had some of the best healers in the world at their disposal. He would always have a scar, but he could use the hand perfectly well once it had healed. They ought to have been in more trouble, but Elrond and Celebrían handled it gently, reckoning that the lesson had already been firmly imparted.

Elrohir, though, could not escape his guilt. He confessed, tearfully, that it was all his fault—he dared Elladan to do it— _ordered_ him to do it—no amount of reassurance, even from Elladan himself, could convince him that they were equally responsible. He knew the truth; the king’s duty was to protect those who served him, just as they protected him. He had ordered Elladan into danger, just to satisfy his own curiosity, and it was unforgivable.

The game was over.

Once or twice, afterwards, Elladan jokingly called him _your highness_. The look on Elrohir’s face when he did made him drop it quickly.

The game had gone on for too long not to leave its mark on them, though.

For a while, Elrohir was terribly, terribly careful. But in unguarded moments—which came more frequently the further the incident receded into the past—he would sometimes forget and phrase a request to Elladan as an order.

Elladan missed the game, though he didn’t dare tell Elrohir as much. So when it happened, he would bite back the _your highness_ on his tongue, and say “Yes, brother,” instead. Elrohir was not oblivious, but it seemed a compromise he could live with, a not-quite-nickname to replace the one he felt he no longer deserved.

~

By the time they were grown, the distance of years had softened Elrohir’s guilt some. They could joke and reminisce now about their childhood games without pressing a sore spot, though as far as either one would admit, that was all firmly in the past. Elven memory is better than mortal, and they had that from their elven side; but they forgot, or chose to forget, how many of their current habits were born of those games.

Having outgrown their wild childhood exploits, Elrohir had settled somewhat into seriousness, and his sense of humor now ran distinctly toward the dry. He had cultivated an interest in the law and how it was applied, both in Imladris and abroad, and was a constant at his father’s council these days. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak it was measured and quiet, making him seem more remote and less strong of will than he truly was.

Elladan had become the smiling face, the approachable one who rode out with friends or danced from dusk to dawn at balls, who greeted people in the halls without being addressed first. He lead hunts and sorties with ease, and if he was not often in council, he still seemed to stay well-informed about the decisions and dilemmas thereof. If the Lord and Lady of Imladris were ever to retire or leave the Valley (or, Eru forfend, something happen to them), no one doubted that Elladan would be the one to inherit the position, rather than his brother. As far as most of their acquaintance was concerned, he spoke for the both of them; as far as anyone besides the two of them was concerned, Elrohir followed his lead in most things.

When they were out of the public eye, the illusion fell away. Elrohir smiled more, spoke with more animation—and more authority. They might bicker or tease one another, but when Elrohir put his foot down, Elladan always gave way. That was rare, though. Elladan was eager enough to yield to his direction without argument.

He played at servitude, and made Elrohir laugh, but—he felt there was something more behind it now, a strange thrill that had not been there in their childhood games. He did not look too closely at what it might mean; after all, everything in his upbringing insisted that he was meant to command, not to obey. If he pretended it were only a little thing, just a foolish way to entertain a brother who did not smile enough, then he would not feel obliged to give it up.

In his weakest moments, he dared to imagine what it might be like if their father did abdicate his position.

Elrohir was the heir, in point of fact, the elder by a little over a quarter-hour. It might not have mattered much, if they had truly been as they appeared to others—there was no divide between them, and they might have ruled together, or Elrohir bowed out in favor of his brother. But Elladan knew what a fine leader Elrohir could be, given the chance. He might not have Elladan's knack for making fast friends, but he would be loved for all he could do, for his careful fairness and tireless attention; he had inherited their father’s skill in diplomacy and in kind but just adjudication. He had a mind for creative solutions, and the calm certainty required to see them through.

And Elladan? Elladan would be free, then, to serve him with all the loyalty and devotion he deserved. To be his right hand, carrying out in action what law his brother laid down in words. To kneel before him, to—

To—

Well. There was a reason he only imagined it in his weakest moments.

~

Elrohir was reading, reclining comfortably across a chaise, with Elladan’s deft hands in his hair. Elladan was braiding his dark tresses back into a crown; Elrohir was so at ease, and so absorbed in the text, that he did not notice the way his brother’s eyes lingered on his face. Elladan took his time at the task, drinking in Elrohir’s contentment, and when he fixed in the silver clasps and stepped back it was with some regret.

Elrohir tipped his head back and smiled fondly up at him. “Thank you. You know, I wish you enjoyed this sort of thing,” he said, indicating the scroll across his lap. “It’s fascinating, and I’d like your take on it.”

Elladan snorted. “I’ll read it if you ask me to, but I probably won’t understand it. Scholars have a regrettable way of taking perfectly simple topics and making them dense as mud.” Elrohir gave him a pointed look, and he held up his hands in a placating gesture, laughing softly. “Excepting of course my own dear brother, who always explains things very clearly, whether I want him to or not. What is it about, then?”

Elrohir pulled up his feet a little and indicated the space he had made for Elladan to sit; Elladan, instead, chose to settle on the rug in front of the chaise, telling himself he liked the proximity to the hearth. Elrohir shrugged and stretched out again. “The base premise seems obvious enough. The author posits that there are times when what is moral and what is legal are in direct opposition.”

Elladan tried to pretend interest. “I doubt anyone could disagree with that. It’s impractical to outlaw everything immoral, so of course there must be times when something is legal but not moral.”

“She speaks of the inverse, too—when following the law is at odds with what is moral.”

“How do you mean?” Elladan still was not terribly invested, but if nothing else, he liked to hear his brother talk.

“Well, unjust laws, of course—as history shows us, the lawmakers themselves are not inherently moral. But also...well, kidnapping laws, for instance. They are there for good reason; they protect the innocent. Removing a child from her rightful guardian is illegal, and immoral, correct?” Elladan made a motion of agreement, and Elrohir gestured broadly. “Ah, but what if that child is being ill-used? Burned, perhaps, or beaten, or deprived of food? Is the moral obligation not then to remove the child from her tormentor, regardless of the law?”

“Surely. But the law itself ought to have provisions for that. The system has already failed if it reaches the point where the law has to be broken to remedy the situation.” Elladan couldn’t imagine why they were talking about this. His opinion was hardly unique on such subjects, and besides, this seemed well below Elrohir’s level.

“Granted. The author gives more examples, situations that might not be so easy to predict or provision against, but I’m more interested in the grey area. She suggests that some acts can be illegal, but—morally neutral.” Elrohir paused to see if Elladan was following, then went on. “In Doriath, for example, when Thingol outlawed the speaking of Quenya. If our grandmother still used that tongue in private, it would not have caused anyone harm, that I can imagine. But it was illegal, nonetheless. And it was no moral obligation, no act of protection—what do you think?”

Elladan blinked. “I think it was an unjust law, which you’ve already accounted for.”

“All right, not the best example. I’m trying to give you a victimless crime here. Say a man who is hungry comes across an abandoned dwelling, where the food laid in for winter by the previous inhabitants has been left behind. It doesn't belong to him, so it’s technically theft if he takes the food. But is it immoral?” Elrohir was studying him with far more interest than such an obvious question warranted.

“Of course not. That’s a failure of the law, again, if there is no provision for abandoned property, and no care for the hungry.” Elladan drummed his fingers against the edge of the chaise. “I’m not sure there is a such thing as a victimless crime, given properly and justly-written laws. Of course, there’s probably no such thing as a perfect legal code, either. I know you believe in being compassionate when it comes to enforcing the laws, which should go a fair ways towards remedying their shortcomings. What is this about, really?”

Elrohir half-shrugged, smiling. “Everything is so clear-cut for you! I should have known it was no use trying to draw you into a philosophical debate. Never mind.” He set the scroll aside and sat up, making as if to rise. “Winter’s here any day now. It’s gotten chilly.”

“Don’t get up, I’ll stoke the fire,” Elladan said, rolling to his feet and going for the stacked wood. On his way, his eye lit briefly on the scroll, half-unrolled where it lay on the end table. He had already rearranged the coals in the hearth and laid in another log when his mind processed what he’d seen.

It wasn’t a treatise on the law at all. It was poetry, some of Elrohir's favorite—a volume that Elladan had seen in his hands dozens of times (and Elrohir had insisted on reading aloud to him on more than one occasion).

It seemed a bizarre thing to lie about, an absolutely unnecessary falsehood. Which meant Elrohir’s questions had some ulterior motive—some drive beyond the purely philosophical—though he could not imagine what that might be.

When the fire was taken care of, he fetched a quilt for Elrohir, surreptitiously studying him as he tucked it around him. Elrohir ruffled his hair affectionately. “My faithful herald.”

Elladan started at the title, then gave him a surprised grin, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. “I thought you had forgotten that game.”

Elrohir smiled sheepishly and reached for his hand, turning it palm-up to run his thumb along the faded scar there. “Not forgotten. I owe you that much, at least.”

Elladan sank down beside the chaise again, smiling, and did not reclaim his hand. “We’ve discussed this. You didn’t put the key in my hand, nor Aeglos. It was a foolish accident. I have worse scars from training.”

“Oh!” Elrohir dropped his hand in sudden excitement (or agitation?), sitting up again. “Speaking of forgotten—I forgot to tell you! I found out—that is, I heard from—well. Did you...did you know about Adar and Gil-galad?”

Elladan cocked his head. “What about them?”

Elrohir glanced over his shoulder as if they were not alone in his rooms, and someone might hear. Elladan rolled his eyes, but Elrohir still leaned in, lowering his voice. “They were lovers. Before Adar and Naneth met. Did you know?”

The knowledge hit him like a plunge into a snowbank. He hadn’t known, and now that he did, he had no idea what to do with the information; instead he gaped, mutely, at his brother.

“Don’t be upset,” Elrohir said quickly, mistaking his shock for disapproval. “Like I said, it was before he even knew Naneth. She knows, apparently. Well, everyone knows, I guess it isn’t a secret, but no one ever mentioned it to us before.”

“I’m not upset,” Elladan said, beginning to process. It wasn’t that he was not concerned for their mother, or at least, would have been, if he had gotten that far before Elrohir’s reassurance. But in truth he was not thinking of their father, or the king, at all. He was thinking of himself, and of Elrohir as his king; he was thinking of the games they used to play, cast in an entirely different light.

He glanced up, and Elrohir was still leaning forward, his eyes trained on Elladan’s face. He was eager for a reaction, Elladan realized, and things clicked into place. _He knows_ , he thought, with sudden fear. _Or suspects_. Discussions about laws and morality—using an offhand mention of their game as a segue to _this_ —of course. Elrohir loved the law and all its nuances; of course he would be disturbed to know how his brother dreamed of breaking it, especially a law of the Valar themselves.

Elladan swallowed panic and tried to make his expression light. “Poor Ada, it must have been awfully awkward at first when we played our games!”

Elrohir studied him for the briefest moment longer, then smiled back at him. “Maybe so. Well, we were only children, we didn’t know. After all those tales of glory and danger that Glorfindel fed us, it’s no surprise we chose them to emulate!”

Elladan felt as relieved as if he’d dodged an arrow. “Exactly. And in that vein, you can forgive yourself for my hand now, O Martyred One. As you said—we were only children. We didn’t know.”

Elrohir wrinkled his nose. “I will try, I suppose. Maybe some day I will manage, when I am old enough to forget the true details in favor of your kinder interpretation.” He quirked an eyebrow, very like their father. “Though knowing what we know, I don’t think we’ll resurrect the old nicknames. It would be...awkward.”

Elladan laughed, and was pleased to hear that it sounded genuine. “Agreed. _Brother_ will continue to do just fine.” Elrohir may have been chilly, but Elladan was feeling the distinct need for some air. “I think I'm going to ride out for a bit while it’s still light enough. Can I get you anything before I go?”

Elrohir gave him a long look that he was unsure how to read, even after the conversation they'd just had. “If I can’t have the pleasure of your company, I don’t suppose I need anything else,” he said at last, smiling to soften the words.

“Don’t lie, I know you grow tired of me catering to your every whim.” Elladan grinned as he crossed to the door.

“Never,” Elrohir murmured behind him, and Elladan knew it was only his own bias that made it sound wistful.

~

A few days later, Elrohir came into Elladan's room without knocking, angry and weary.

Elladan was in his sitting-room, writing a letter to a friend among the Dunedain (he had to remind himself often that correspondences with the Edain must be more frequent than his usual, it being seen as much ruder to go years between letters when your lifespan was so much shorter). If he had not been facing the door, he would have missed Elrohir's entrance entirely, so quietly did he come in.

That did not bode well. Elladan snarled when he was angry, but Elrohir grew grim and quiet, as if even the sound of his own footsteps would set him off further. If he was walking like a hunter and muffling the door as he eased it shut behind him, it meant he was furious.

Elladan hoped he was coming for counsel or comfort, and not for blood.

Elrohir eased himself into a chair, still soundless, and took a few breaths to master himself before he even looked at his brother. At last, he lifted his head. “Forgive me. I should have knocked.” Not blood, then, thankfully—or at least not Elladan's.

Elladan shook his head. “You are always welcome.”

Elrohir nodded, acknowledgement and thanks, and then sighed. “Sometimes I think you have the right of it, staying out of Father's councils. How are we to ever move forward if none of his advisors will even acknowledge that the world has changed since the First Age? I know he doesn't agree, but he had to let each of them have their say, every time. As if they've not been saying the same tired thing for centuries.”

Elladan put aside his quill and capped the inkwell to give his brother his full attention. “What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing new. I won't bore you with the details, but the short story is that anything we build must be designed to the specifications of elves long-dead or else it is an embarrassment, an eyesore, and an affront to Father's proud heritage. Et cetera.”

“Forget them,” Elladan said, crossing to him and laying his hands on Elrohir’s shoulders, working at the tension there. “I’ll make our excuses and fetch us some supper, and we can stay in. I’ll read to you, if you like, or we can play parlor games.”

Elrohir half-smiled. “You’re trying to placate me.”

“I’m trying to soothe you,” Elladan countered. “Come, now, save your anger for the morning. It doesn’t spite them any to fume all night.”

Elrohir made a sound of assent and rolled his head forward, relaxing under his hands. Elladan ached, longing rising up in his chest, but it was such a pleasant ache he had little desire to escape it. Instead he let himself indulge: loosing his brother’s hair (the braided crown, again) and finger-combing it into soft waves; unclasping his jewelry and laying it aside piece by piece; pressing his thumbs gently but firmly into the knots where neck and skull met, until at last they gave way and Elrohir let out a long breath.

When he was finished, Elladan bent down and kissed the top of Elrohir’s head, which seemed safe enough. “I’ll go see about supper,” he said when he straightened, and Elrohir murmured a vague affirmative response without lifting his head.

Elladan arranged to have something brought to them, then tracked down their mother to explain that they would not make an appearance at the table tonight. When he returned, Elrohir had not moved.

“Forget supper, perhaps I should have bundled you up and put you to bed,” Elladan said softly, and laughed as Elrohir stirred.

“I wasn’t asleep. Just enjoying the peace, as you wanted me to do.”

“The peace of my absence?” he teased.

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Even absent, you are present here. Everything about this space speaks of its inhabitant.” He toyed with one of the discarded hair clasps on the side table, smiling softly. “It’s a good place to let go of my anger.”

Elladan wasn’t sure precisely how to take that, but it warmed him nonetheless. “Well, Naneth knows not to expect us, so you are welcome to enjoy the peace as long as you like.”

Elrohir got to his feet, slowly. “I will, I think. But now that you have me all unbound and nearly-comfortable, I’d like to get out of these formal robes. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Recklessly, Elladan said, “Borrow something of mine. Half the time I think they mix up our laundry anyway.” Elrohir shrugged agreeably, so he fetched out a loose tunic from the clothes-chest in his bedroom and passed it over. And, though he knew he shouldn’t, for his own sake if not for Elrohir’s— “Shall I help you?”

Elrohir laughed. “You would be my valet?”

“I will serve you in any way you ask.” He meant it to sound playfully sarcastic, but instead it came out just slightly too sincere. He froze for a heartbeat, then two, searching for some way to play it off gracefully; but then Elrohir beamed, seemingly unaware, and turned his back for Elladan to slide the heavy over-robe off his shoulders. Elladan draped the garment carefully over a chair, then came back to help him out of the under-robe.

Elrohir had not moved, standing relaxed and waiting, which Elladan took as an indication he was quite content to let his brother do the work of undressing him. Elladan unpinned the brooch at his throat and set it with the other jewelry, then lifted nimble fingers to the buttons, lessening the already-slight distance between them as he focused on his task.

He did not get very far. He had only opened the robe to Elrohir’s breastbone when Elrohir suddenly seized his wrist. Elladan looked up, startled, and realized with sudden apprehension how very close they stood. Elrohir’s gaze was intense, and he realized he must have crossed a line somehow. Misunderstood Elrohir’s signals, or—or purposely misread them, he thought guiltily, because he had wanted them to be different.

Elrohir’s free hand came up to cup his jaw, preventing him from pulling back. “I can understand how it happened,” Elrohir said quietly. Elladan felt immediately sick with remorse; he wanted to confess, to apologize for every liberty he’d ever taken, to submit to whatever justice Elrohir wished to lay upon him. “Gil-galad and Adar, I mean,” Elrohir amended, and Elladan’s mind ground to a halt.

_Gil-galad and...?_

In a sudden, joyous rush, Elladan realized he wasn’t being accused, that they were discussing something else entirely. He drew a shaky breath of relief and waited for Elrohir to finish the thought.

Elrohir’s eyes burned through him. “He must have looked very like you, back then.” His fingertips moved gently where they lay against Elladan’s jawline—if he hadn’t known better, Elladan would have called the motion _stroking_ —and the faint distance between them lessened even more. “I can imagine the king’s temptation—with someone so fair at his command—” and then his mouth was on Elladan’s, and Elladan’s hand had somehow slipped inside the unbuttoned robe, and they were all tangled up in one another without quite knowing how it happened.

Elladan kept starting to speak, but he was muffled by Elrohir’s eager lips, Elrohir’s tongue. He could have tried harder, but he did not want an answer to the question he meant to ask, not really. He let himself be silenced, let himself have this—at least until the inevitable moment when Elrohir remembered what an immense transgression this was.

At last they parted for a moment, and Elladan managed, “But the laws—”

In an instant, Elrohir’s expression flashed from heat to regret; Elladan could hardly bear to see it. Elrohir stepped back a little and laid a hand across his gaping collar, as if he might refasten the buttons, though he didn’t actually do so. “Of course. Forgive me. You did try to tell me, the other afternoon. No grey areas.” He made as if to step around Elladan, but Elladan blinked at him and did not give way.

“ _I_ tried to tell _you_ …?” A confused beat passed between them; Elladan worked it out first, though he did not quite dare to hope. “I thought you were testing me. Or warning me off…”

Elrohir stopped. “I _was_ testing you, and you wouldn’t entertain any nuance at all.”

“You should have given me a better example.” Elladan, with his heart in his throat, reached again for Elrohir’s buttons; Elrohir did not stop him. He focused on his hands as he slowly unfastened, and if they shook a little, at least his voice did not.

Elrohir took his face between both palms, lifting it till their eyes met. “So you do agree that there are times when _illegal_ does not mean _immoral_?”

“What does it matter?” Elladan swallowed, then breathed the rest out in a rush, before he could talk himself out of it. “I don’t serve the law. I serve you.” His hands continued their work, as if they operated without his say-so.

Elrohir’s expression grew heated again, though he said nothing. He watched as Elladan finished unbuttoning the robe, waited as he pushed it off his shoulders to pool on the floor and leave him bare to the waist. Then, suddenly, he seized Elladan with a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to breathe against his ear. “You serve me, do you? It’s been a long time. I wonder if you remember how to take orders.”

Elladan shivered all the way down his spine. Eyes lowered, he murmured back, “I remember, brother.”

Elrohir’s hands gentled, and the smile was audible in his voice. “Kneel, then, and show me.” Elladan, breathless, sank to his knees before him; Elrohir stroked his hair.

Elladan hesitated, unsure whether to wait for guidance, but Elrohir did not make him wait long. “You were helping me undress, I believe. Go on, then.” Elladan smoothed palms up his thighs, then moved to the laces of his breeches. He could feel Elrohir hot and half-hard beneath the fabric as he unlaced them, and it was all he could do not to hurry. When he had them open, he made to tug the breeches down, but Elrohir stayed him. “That will do for now.” He was so steady, so... _in control_ , that Elladan wondered suddenly if he had imagined this scenario, if he had played through it in his mind and planned it out. The wondering made his blood run hotter, and he licked his lips, fingers flexing unconsciously where they rested against Elrohir’s waistband.

Elrohir did not miss the movement. “Do you want to touch? Touch me, then.”

Elladan did not need to be told twice. He tugged a little more at the breeches, just enough that Elrohir’s cock sprung free; then he took his brother in hand, and Elrohir drew a soft breath of anticipation.

At first it was only an exploratory touch—appreciating the weight of him, the _heat_ of him, running the pad of his thumb up the vein along the underside and then down again, learning the feel of it in his hand. Elrohir did not stop him. When he was content with that, he shifted his grip, beginning to stroke his brother in the ways that he liked best himself; Elrohir pushed into his hand and hummed approvingly, and it felt like high praise.

It was not enough, though. He was consumed with the _immensity_ of his wanting; he wanted Elrohir’s hands fisted in his hair, Elrohir’s cock down his throat, Elrohir’s voice—not just his actions—praising his service. He glanced up, and Elrohir read him like a letter in a fine hand.

“Yes,” he said, his voice rough. “Use your mouth.”

Elladan, burning, obeyed.

It was gentler than his imagining, Elrohir’s hand resting only lightly against the crown of his head, barely guiding him; but still, it was _good_. Elrohir’s breath hitched as he moved, and it was the most desperately charming sound Elladan thought he had ever heard. Elrohir drew a long breath, putting a hand on the back of the chair beside them for balance.

“Good,” he breathed, sounding more in control than he had any right to be, “that’s good, Elladan. Take me deeper, now.” His pause was carefully calculated, so that his voice did not falter when Elladan did just that—once he had mastered himself again, he continued speaking. “Yes, just like that. A little slower—take your time. No, don’t use your hands—put them behind your back. Good.”

Elladan made a soft, needy sound around him, and Elrohir pet his hair tenderly.

“You do remember how to take orders,” he said softly, fiercely, “so well I think you must have been waiting for them all this time.” Elladan had not been given leave to reply, so he did not; still, he hoped the answer was obvious. Elrohir ran his thumb along the shell of Elladan’s ear, making him shiver. “It was more than a game, wasn’t it, when—”

A knock came at the door, startling them both. Elrohir stared at the door as if he could see through it; they both were still for a beat. Then Elrohir, forcing composure, said, “Answer it.”

Elladan moved back, surprised and uncertain, but he did not wait to be told again. As he stood and composed himself, Elrohir went through to the bedroom, still in his half-undressed state but out of sight now. Elladan went to the door.

He felt foolish when he opened it. A servant stood there with their supper—just as he’d requested. He had entirely forgotten, in all the...excitement. He murmured his thanks and stood aside to let her pass; she smiled at him and laid out the food on the table, telling him what had been sent for their meal, of which he heard not a word.

Once she had gone again (and the door carefully barred behind her), Elrohir did not reappear. After a moment, Elladan peeked curiously through the bedroom door; the sight there was enough to drive him to distraction.

Elrohir had shed his breeches, and was now sprawled naked and careless across the pillows of Elladan’s bed, looking for all the world like he owned the place. Or— _kingly_ , Elladan thought. Like he owned _everything_ , like the world knelt before him. Elrohir gazed back serenely for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

It took a moment for Elladan to remember what he was asking. “Supper.”

“Food can wait,” Elrohir said, and Elladan could not possibly have agreed more. “Come here. Do you have oil?”

Elladan stopped mid-step, suddenly overwhelmed by the implications of the request. He had not dared to think of—he simply had not _gotten_ that far in his imaginings, barely letting himself dwell on the image of kneeling before his brother, much less anything beyond. He wasn’t even entirely certain how he felt about the notion. Turned on, yes, of course he was, but...

Elrohir mistook his hesitation. “Or sword grease will do. I know you have that, at least.”

Elladan fetched it, still trying to work out how he felt about—well. He knew how he felt about Elrohir. And Elrohir was unlikely to push him too far; he clearly had not forgotten the one time he had ever done so. Elladan had said he would serve him, obey him; and so he would.

He handed the pot of sword-grease over, then knelt on the bed beside his brother, who laughed and tugged at the collar of his tunic. “I’ve let you stay dressed for far too long. Off with this. And the breeches, let me see you.” Elladan stripped out of them, relaxing a little under Elrohir’s warm regard. Elrohir reached out to lay hands on him, pulling him closer until they were pressed together, skin to skin. “Have you done this before?”

“Not this, no.” He did not say that it hadn’t seemed right, even with the ones who would have submitted for him; he tried not to think of how Elrohir’s tone implied that he _had_ , or of who he might have done this _with_.

“No matter,” Elrohir said easily, rolling onto his back as he reached again for the grease and slicked his fingers with it. Elladan waited for an order; to get on hands and knees, perhaps, or lie back and tuck his legs against his chest, or—

And then Elrohir bent his knee up, and pressed one slick finger inside himself. Elladan’s mouth fell open as he watched. He had never seen anything so arousing in his life, but surely Elrohir didn’t mean to be the one taken? Elrohir laughed at his expression, tugging a lock of his hair affectionately, even as he slid another finger inside himself. “Enjoying the view?”

He could not deny it. But still— “You want to be _beneath_ me?”

Elrohir regarded him curiously, slowing the tantalizing motions of his hand. “Would you prefer it the other way? I thought it might be easier, this time, but I don’t mind if you’d like—”

“No,” he said, then realized it was true. He did not want to be taken, at least not now, while he was still sorting it all out. “But you—I mean, I wanted to serve you—”

Elrohir laughed again, and kissed him soundly. “You think I cannot command you from here? You know me better than that.” He dropped his voice suddenly, filling it with authority. “Come here. Kneel between my knees and let me prepare you.”

Elladan felt the order in every part of him, was moving to obey it before he was even fully aware; Elrohir’s smile was more than a little smug as he sat up, slicking Elladan’s cock with firm, eager strokes. Elladan shuddered at his touches, burned for this, burned for _more_ until Elrohir laid back and pulled him closer with legs hooked behind his thighs.

It took some adjustment, but then he was _there_ , the head of his cock resting just against Elrohir’s entrance. Everything in him wanted to surge forward, to push into him; but Elrohir lifted a finger to his lips and murmured, “Wait.” He waited.

At last, pleased, Elrohir replaced the finger with his lips, breaking the kiss only to whisper, “Now. Go slowly.”

The long slide into him was bliss; so, too, was the little sound Elrohir could not quite suppress, the way his legs tightened around Elladan’s hips. When Elrohir did not command him further, Elladan began to thrust, slowly at first; then faster, when he could not help himself.

“Angle your hips, like this—” Elrohir said softly after a time, pressing against him with a heel to indicate his meaning. He gasped when Elladan sorted out what he was asking for, and his voice was not at all steady when he spoke again. “Yes, like that. Good. _Harder_.”

Elladan followed his every direction. Elrohir praised him, breathlessly, his touches tender, reinforcing the words. It was not long before Elladan was tensing, groaning, “I’m sorry—I can’t—”

“Spill inside me,” Elrohir growled against his ear. “I want to feel you, Elladan, do it now—” It was all the encouragement his brother needed. Elrohir stroked himself fast and frantic as Elladan came; truth be told he was not so far himself, and when Elladan’s hand joined his own without being ordered, he went over the edge quickly enough, painting them both with his seed.

Elladan drew a long, shaky breath and fell to the bed beside him, wiping his hand absently on the sheets. Elrohir let him recover a moment, admiring the familiar shape of his profile, enjoying the awestruck expression on his face. “Come here and kiss me,” he said when Elladan had gotten his breath back, and there was no doubt it was an order.

Elladan turned towards him, leaning in but stopping just shy of his mouth. And with the faintest, wickedest smile, he said: “Of course, your Highness. But perhaps you could show your brother how it’s done?”

Elrohir, laughing, bore him down to the bed and showed him quite thoroughly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the folks at the Little Details LJ comm for their help with hand injuries and the (im)proper handling of Aeglos!


End file.
